SHOC
by kimberlyboo3
Summary: Who kidnapps a man like Sherlock Holmes just for a ransom? He just graduated, he's not famous yet (at least not THAT famous). Has no friends, just sort of an aquaintance in Scotland Yard. DI Lastrade. There is is his brother, but only on photographs would your kin look nice. He's young, has no idea of life. Human nature is alchemy for him. But that might change.
1. Prelude

Cotton. The first thing that crossed his mind as he regained consciousness. Cotton. Why not silk? He remembered he was wearing his purple, silk shirt when… Yes, obviously. When he was kidnapped. He finally located the right door in his mind palace. He was thinking. Clever. Unfair, but clever. Lost in his thoughts, with eyes closed, obvious he didn't notice a kidnapper. Especially if the kidnapper was pretending to be just a client… Chloroform? No, had to be something else. Something so he or she could take him out without anybody noticing. So he could follow on his own, without making anybody suspicious. But somebody had to get suspicious. Mycroft has an eye on CCTV over whole London, he wouldn't miss the fact Sherlock disappear with an unknown woman… Or would he? It was after all usual for Sherlock to disappear from time to time. So why would anyone care if he left willingly? As long as she hadn't dragged him unconscious out of the flat, nobody would care…

* * *

His shirt was ripped off, blood covering his chest, many bruises, sings of struggling, face showing tiredness. He has been tortured, now unconscious. His hands tied behind his back, legs bound to a chair he was put on, blindfolded. The message was clear - do what I want, or it's gotta get worse. And it hasn't been very good already. Clock was ticking in the background, when Gregory Lestrade met Mycroft Holmes, under the certainly not pleasant circumstances. Sherlock had many enemies. There was dozens people who could kidnap him. Part of them would just kill him, never bother to send any message. The other part would take pleasure from torturing him and then send back what left of the detective. Moriarty would do both. But there was no one... not a single person on his way who could make up such a ridiculous plan. Sherlock Holmes was not the kind of man that is kidnapped for a ransom. And yet there was an envelope, yet that happened.


	2. Who? What? Why?

"Olivia. Olivia Carmichael."

The voice was very quiet. Very tender. Like… afraid.

"I'm sorry. Could told you I had too, but let's not be cliché. You won't believe anyway. You're not stupid. I'm just sorry."

The tender voice of a kidnapper… of her. A woman. Girl rather. Sounded not more than 21. There was something in that statement. He knew she was telling the truth. Supposed to be in charge, but she seemed to be more scared than him and she was not the one tied up and blindfolded. That case might be much more interesting than it seemed to be. And far more pleasant. He could not be sure of her plans, but something was telling him it still won't get worse than it could get with Moriarty in command. He opened his mouth, all he got from that voice on the tip of his tongue, but he changed his mind. Deducting might not be the best in the situation. When words finally got out, he couldn't help the trembling voice. She might not be Moriarty and she might sound gently, but still she kidnapped him. Still he couldn't expect anything pleasant in the next hours. Still he was afraid.

"I'm awake, fully conscious, and on your mercy. What next? Tortures? Interrogation? Where did we met actually? What.. what 've I done to you?"

She remained silent. Sherlock tried hard to recognise the voice, but he couldn't. What have he done to her, if they haven't even met? Was that about family, friends? What she some sort of a crazy fan? Being through much in his short life. But never he felt that fear. The insecurity. The uncertainty. There was something far more terrifying in that silent sadness and gentleness, in the tender voice she had than in Moriarty's insanity.

"We haven't met. And I've got nothing against you. It's nothing personal, no family business, no friends hurt. You really did nothing to me. It's all just me. My sick desperation. My calling for help. It's my fault. All my fault."

"Why I'm here?"

"For a ransom."

* * *

Another terrible moment of silence. Long.

"I'll get us something to drink. You must be thirsty."

Having said that, she just left. Sherlock listened to the steps falling into silence. He couldn't understand what's going on. For the first time in his life, he was scared, confused and didn't know. He didn't like not knowing. The girl came back. She put two glasses on a table, approached Sherlock from his back and tied him in his chest. His heart rate at moment felt very shaming. He had no idea why she adds another boundaries. They were tight. Gentle, not brutal, but enough tight to prevent him from moving. And she did what Sherlock would never expect. Not in that situation, not at that moment. He didn't expect anything pleasant since he was tied up. He felt into pieces, he felt emotions controlling him. He didn't like it. Being scared. So it really surprised him when having established the rope around his chest she undid his wrists. He slowly, not sure if he's allowed to, moved his forearms. She handed him a glass. So that's why. He drank, carefully, as he was bound to a chair and blindfolded, but still it was amazing to feel water in the dry mouth. She took an empty glass from him and disappeared again for a while. Than she came back and sat there. The captor and the captive in the room, but like nobody was there, in that silence. About an hour they were like that. Long. All the time she sitting there, so he finally decided to speak.

"Why, out of 7 billion people on that globe, thousand more influential and richer, have you chosen me?"

She burst out crying.


End file.
